The Light Sees You in the Bathroom

The middle of the day is the hardest part, isn't it? You are standing in the hallway bathroom with the faucet running so no one hears you sobbing while staring at your own eyes in the mirror. The water is loud, but your silence is louder. You feel like you are falling apart in plain sight, yet completely unseen.

But the light sees you. It sees the tears you try to hide behind the noise. It sees the exhaustion behind the mask you wear for the world. And it does not turn away.

There is a story of a man born blind, and everyone around him wanted to know whose fault it was. Who sinned? Was it him? His parents? They wanted to make his pain a moral equation. But the light looked at him and said: neither. This happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him.

Your breaking is not a failure. It is a canvas. The light is not looking for someone who has it all together; it is looking for the one who is honest enough to weep with the faucet running. The light is right there in the bathroom with you, in the steam and the sound.